Strange Fruit
by Adoradork
Summary: A collection of the funny, the erotic and the weird. Not safe for work. Probably not safe for life.
1. So pale, so cold and delicious

_Okay, I take no blame for this. Someone on Tumblr asked if the fandom was shipping Donatello x milk now, due to a flood of Donatello drinking milk pics. And I just...couldn't resist. _

* * *

Donatello slipped into the kitchen, glancing around for his brothers. He could hear the sound of combat coming from the dojo. It was now or never. He opened the door of the fridge with a hand that shook. Was there…oh god _yes_. There was half a carton of milk left. He swallowed against the rising desire to just grab the carton, chug down that delicious, cold sweetness. No. He needed to control this…this feeling. But his heart skittered in his chest, nervous, expectant.

Gently he wrapped his hand around the carton, feeling the hard edges bite into his palm. The sensation traveled down his arm, into his belly, so warm and familiar. As he raised the carton, the contents sloshed against the cardboard sides, begging to be drunk. He longed for it, the touch of cold against his tongue, the fullness of it in his mouth.

Then the carton was against his lips, unbidden. He opened his mouth, tipped his head back and the sweet, delicious coolness flooded across his tongue. He swallowed, and swallowed again, feeling the cold seep down to his belly. Oh god. He leaned against the table, shaking with desire.

It wasn't enough. He needed it all. With a groan he tipped his head back, letting the cold fluid cascade down his chin, his throat, over his chest, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Oh god, it was so cold, so _good_.

He didn't stop until the carton was empty, until his whole body shuddered with the chill, his nostrils full of the scent of milk. It dripped down his carapace, his legs, to pool on the floor in a sticky smear.

When his breathing had quietened and his legs stopped shaking, he tossed the carton in the trash, and wrote _milk_ on the shopping list. He heard his brothers coming out of the dojo and hurried into the shower, ashamed but so elated, so buoyant. He could never get enough of this feeling. In the shower he scrubbed off the evidence of their union, slowly, his fingers lingering on the sticky remnants.

"Hey!" yelled Mikey from the kitchen. "Who spilled milk all over the floor?"


	2. Canvas

_I've been having a love affair (unrequited) with Leonardo's thighs since the very first 2k12 episode. Someone on Tumblr asked what I would like to do to those thighs. _

* * *

She dips the calligraphy brush into the ink, wipes the bristles carefully on the edge of the pot until the brush is no longer dripping, just glistening and black. The tip of the brush flicks out, sending a tiny spatter of ink across the white sheet. Her canvas rests on the sheet, blue eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth turned up in the ghost of a smile. There is no tension in the muscles before her, they are at rest, a verdant canvas primed and ready for her brush. They will not be relaxed for long.

She lifts the brush, holds it over his thigh. The kanji for _katana _is simple, elegant, three sweeping strokes. She touches the tip of the brush to his skin, feather-light, wrist and arm moving in harmony. Under her careful hands the lines come to life, ebony on green.

He knows not to move. That is the rule. He is the canvas, and the canvas does not move, nor does it speak. But it breathes, and each breath is music to the writer.

The thought pleases her. She dips the brush and writes breath - _iki _- over and over again on the tight skin below his hip joint, writes with swift, playful strokes, purely for the pleasure of it, the bristles compressing against flesh, an echo of each stroke in the catch of his breath.

The friction of the brush against his skin is heaven to her fingers. When she writes _yorokobi_ - pleasure - she is writing to herself, though she knows that he must get _something_ from this. Something in the movement of the brush, the lap of ink against his skin brings him back to her.

She has never asked. She does not need to know. She only needs the canvas.

Rapture - _kanki_ - is a pair of complex kanji, straight lines and sharp angles and accents, staccato wrist movements that make the brush end kick and dance. It seems appropriate to write this down the sensitive inside of his thigh, where each stroke of her brush elicits a short, harsh exhalation.

Ecstasy - _ekusutashī_ - has six kanji, a total of seventeen sharp strokes which she writes along the swell of his quadriceps, the brush ends flicking out with each movement. His hands curl into the sheet, seeking control, the fabric pulled taut in his fists. Her brush is the enemy of control. The teasing, tender sweep of the bristles, the smooth slide of ink upon skin shatters his calm and leaves him gasping.

"Hush." It is the only word she ever speaks. She waits until his breath has steadied, then raises the brush again, reading the need, the anticipation in his eyes.

_Fureru _is an interesting kanji, representative of contact, of touch, but also, sometimes, meaning violation. She likes this, and writes it boldly, for is she not violating the purity of this skin, impressing her own thoughts on the canvas? Consent has never been asked, nor spoken. She flicks the brush, sending a scatter of ink across skin and sheet.

He is strong. She writes _no senshi no shinzō-bu_ - heart of the warrior - around the thickest part of his thigh, bending down to rest one elbow on the bed so she can complete the phrase where the muscle curves underneath him. She is close to his hand, where it grips the sheet, but she has no interest in that, only the canvas.

When the canvas is covered, every inch a pattern of green and black, she pauses, brush raised, finding satisfaction in the cleanliness of the lines, the pattern of light and dark on the canvas. It is done. She places the brush carefully on the palette, caps the ink with fingers stained black.

The wet ink shines on his skin. She rests her hands on his knees, stares into blue eyes, digs her fingers into the ink. The texture of it, slick and cold, coats her fingers. She slides them up his thighs, blurring the words into black smears with her palms.

When the work has been thoroughly obliterated, she picks up her palette, bows, and leaves him. _Manzoku._


	3. Who Likes Ice Cream?

_Warning: tcest. Written for some awesome peeps on Tumblr._

* * *

Don heard the pad of running feet and looked up in time to get a lapful of Mikey. His chair rolled backwards with the impact, slamming into the desk.

Mikey pressed his mouth over Donnie's, warm lips parting. Donnie wrapped his arms around him, pulled him in close, dove in to the sweet, warm mouth.

Mikey pulled out of the kiss slowly, his teeth teasing Donnie's bottom lip. Donnie slid his hands down to Mikey's thighs.

"Do I taste like ice cream?" said Mikey, breathless.

Donnie dug his fingers into slender thighs, paused and thought. "Actually, you kind of taste like Raph."

"Oh, well," Mikey leaned in to kiss beneath Don's jaw. "He likes ice cream too."


	4. Strawberries

_I don't know where these ideas come from, I really don't. _

* * *

April waited in the kitchen, rubbing her thumb along the blade of the little sharp fruit knife. Elsewhere in the lair explosions and screams marked another movie night. Casey, Splinter and the turtles would already be sprawled in front of the television.

She had come in late with supplies for the movie. It was their code. Late meant that she could go to the kitchen unnoticed, meant that the boys were unlikely to leave the movie. Except for one. She fiddled with the knife as the minutes passed, and wondered if he had noticed, if she had been too silent. If he would not come.

Something changed, a whisper of sound and he was there in the doorway, green eyes half lidded, his gaze fixed on the knife in her hand.

She smiled.

He moved into the room with the smooth-limbed grace of a stalking tiger, focussed on his prey. She felt a tiny jolt of fear, the fear of the small creature in the face of the predator. Her fingers fumbled along the benchtop, found the shopping bag, reached in with fingers that shook. He froze.

"Hungry?" she whispered. She slid the punnet of strawberries into sight. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent, tasting the air. He came around the end of the bench and now his gaze met hers, raw with need. Fear melted away. He was hers now. For as long as she held the knife.

Oh, this was power.

She picked up a strawberry, pressed gently with her fingers until the flesh bruised, perfuming the air with its sweet, red juice. He moved closer, until the distance between them was less than the width of a strawberry seed. His breath brushed her cheek. Muscles shifted under green skin, shoulders so broad she could barely reach around them, arms corded ropes of muscle.

She raised the knife, felt him shudder. The bright blade bit into red flesh, slicing away the green calyx. He slid an arm around her waist, pulled her to him until thighs and hips touched, lowered his head towards hers.

"You want this?" She moved the strawberry within reach of his mouth. His lips parted, strong teeth sinking into the fruit, juice bursting from the pink flesh, coating her fingers. She ran her thumb along his bottom lip, leaving a trail of juice. His eyelids flickered, his fingers digging into the flesh of her waist, his breath a sharp stutter in his chest.

She picked up another strawberry, flicked the calyx away. He lunged for the fruit with his teeth but she pulled it out of reach.

"Behave." He pulled back, eyes tight with desire, need. She waited, letting the moment stretch out, letting him know who was in control. Finally he lowered his head, turned to nuzzle her ear, nibble along her jaw. "That's better." She let herself enjoy the pressure of his mouth on her flesh, the corresponding tingle in her nipples and belly, before she rewarded him with another sweet mouthful. He took the strawberry in his mouth with a soft groan.

Absolute control. So much power at the mercy of her fingers and her tiny, sharp knife.

She fed them to him, one by one, withholding them when lust made him impatient, making him beg for them with hands and lips and tongue, until the red juice coated her knife hand, ran down her arm to the elbow.

He would lick the knife if he could. She pulled it back out of his reach, took the last strawberry in her fingers. She pressed it into his waiting mouth. He moaned against her fingers, his body taut and tense against hers. She curled her hand around his cheek, stroked her thumb along his lips.

She dropped the knife on the bench. He grabbed her wrist, found the bead of strawberry juice at her elbow, pressed a hot tongue to the red line. He swept his tongue up her arm, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her belly, fire between her legs. His tongue reached her palm, and with rough strokes cleaned her of juice. She leaned against him, her body shuddering with the sensations that rocked her. He took each finger into his mouth individually, sucking the strawberry's essence from her flesh. She gasped, bit her lip to keep from crying out. His tongue slid between her fingers and she moaned as he took the last of the sweetness from her.

She leaned against him, felt the panting rasp of his breath as he bent down toward her. "Animal," she murmured against his lips, and was rewarded with a growl.

His mouth was warm and sweet and tasted of strawberries.


End file.
